


Restorative Philandering

by daroos



Category: Sanctuary (TV)
Genre: 1920's, F/M, Prohibition, bathtub gin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-30
Updated: 2013-09-30
Packaged: 2017-12-28 00:49:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/985665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daroos/pseuds/daroos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Helen and Nikola spend an evening in a speakeasy. Written for a Sanctuary kink!meme prompt oh so long ago, which I neglected to post.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Restorative Philandering

Helen led the way for once, Nikola having been out of the colonies for more than a few years. His look of studied boredom barely concealed a thrumming excitement which made Helen smile. “It’s just down here,” she said, making a quick turn down an alleyway. Nikola clutched, somewhat lost, at her wrist. As much as he was loathe to admit it, the subtleties of human interactions had fallen by the wayside in recent years, awash in a satisfying sea of blood and revenge following the Great War; the feeling of a familiar pulse under his fingertips was a comfort.

The club was in the basement of a two-story brick building - a lodging house by all accounts - and through the soles of the nicest shoes he had donned in five years he felt the pulse of a bass. Helen knocked on the basement door, down a half flight of steps. A suspicious pair of eyes glanced out of a peep slot and muttered something unintelligible. Helen whispered something back which Tesla was too uninterested to listen in on and the lock slid open.

“Billy.” Helen greeted the doorman warmly with a kiss on the cheek. ‘Billy’ blushed an unsightly color and eyed up Tesla nervously. “He’s with me - an old friend in from home.” Helen breezed by, dragging Tesla along with her. He was suddenly reluctant to enter the humid, human-smelling den. The bar he understood, and though it was really a pilfered formal dining table from some formerly wealthy home with largely unmarked jars behind it, it was a welcome sight.

“The usual,” Helen told the bartender. “And a double for my friend,” she added almost offhandedly, placing some coins on the bar. Two glasses with a nebulously rosy liquid were turned over and Tesla took a large mouthful.

“My god that is terrible.” He made a face of disappointment and displeasure. Helen smiled her shit-eating grin and took a delicate sip of her cocktail. “This tastes like bathtub gin and bitters.”

“Your palate has not deteriorated. You identified it in only a single guess.” Helen set her drink on the mantel, leaning against the wall to observe the band. They were composed of a bass, a clarinet, and a man playing a packing box with brushes. A woman wandered through the set, coming in on vocals occasionally, but mostly flirting with the regular patronage and drinking with the abandon of a dedicated alcoholic.

“How do you find a place like this? It has such...”

“Colour?” Helen asked.

“Stench, I was going to say.” A few years ago he might have berated Helen specifically on the lack of class of the establishment, poor taste in drinks, and the state of the floor in his stylish footwear but years of blood and patent lawyers left a coppery bitter flavor in his soul, and as ashamed as he might be to admit it, the tiny fear of rejection if he were to complain overwhelmed his knee-jerk goading.

Helen gave him an understanding smile, turning to enjoy the music. Tesla was distracted by her evening cap - composed mostly of feathers and glass beads - and had the desire to bat at it, or smash it into the wall while reaching his hand up Helen’s skirt while kissing her.

A new song started, and Helen looked at him with understanding and asked, “Will you dance?” He didn’t have to respond -- he merely gave her a look. He didn’t dance. Nikola Tesla did not take a woman into a ring of lecherous-eyed apes to flail about like a poorly-tuned electric generator. She looked sad, but another man -- someone she was obviously familiar with -- asked her to join him, and they did one of the new dances that were all the rage in just that sort of seedy club. He never knew that Helen’s ankles were so nimble. They danced through the next song doing a Foxtrot -- more familiar but no less mystical to the physicist.

Helen returned breathless and adorably pink, the shaggy strings of her gown switching teasingly with every step. “If I didn’t know you better, I would think you’re trying to make a man jealous.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were a man,” she retorted. 

Tesla drank the remainder of his awful cocktail in a gulp. “Touche.” He replied quietly, eyes narrowing at Helen hungrily.

I found a new baby started playing and a sad look came over Helen, all at once. “Have you heard from John?” she asked, deceivingly conversationally.

“I’m afraid not. Out last exchange was mostly death threats, so we’ve avoided one another since.” He picked at his nail, not meeting her eye. He wouldn’t say death threats turned quickly to attempted murder when it was between John and him. Abruptly he said, “As lovely as this cultural experience has been, I think I should be going.” He rose to go but Helen stopped him.

“Why don’t you come back home, even if just for a bit? I’m sure I can find a Bordeaux that’s better for the time spent in the cellar, and I have so missed having company.” Company was said with a bit of emphasis letting Tesla know exactly what she intended with that bottle.

He felt a little less glorious vampire, and a little more tired academic at a loss in the new century but he smiled and nodded. Perhaps a little restorative philandering was just what they both needed.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, questions, comments, concerns, concrit are appreciated!


End file.
